The assignment was simple. Write a letter to your future self.
I took the instructions seriously. For I received them during a summer internship in college — when I was inclined to do anything and everything asked of me.
So, I put pen to paper. I turned that piece of paper in. And some years later, I received it back in the mail.
But instead of opening the letter and regaling in my advice from the past, I filed that envelope away.
My words of that bygone summer couldn’t possibly meet the moment of where I was now.
Through lines.
They’re a critical element in almost any plot. For they serve as the connective tissue for the story arc.
When we look at our own narrative, it’s tempting to search for these through lines. It’s commonplace to expect our past to serve as prologue. It’s tantalizing to imagine connecting the dots with Hollywood flair.
Such scenarios might seem aesthetically pleasing. But they’re out of touch with reality.
The cold, hard truth about our narrative is best summed up by a scene in The Shawshank Redemption.
In this scene, longtime prisoner Red Redding is being interviewed by a parole board. When the interviewer asks Redding if he’s sorry for the crime that landed him behind bars, he offers up the following response.
There’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then, a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime.
I wanna talk to him. I wanna try to talk some sense to him — tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone and this old man is all that’s left. I gotta live with that.
Even while locked away from the world for decades, Redding has grown. And he’s gained enough perspective to realize that this growth happened while behind bars, not before it. As much as he might want to draw a through-line, he simply cannot.
I’m not a hardened criminal who’s spent decades behind foreboding prison walls. But I understand where Redding is coming from. And as such, I’ve stopped trying to connect the dots.
The person I was when I wrote that letter to myself, that was a different person than the one I am now. Yes, my body and mind have remained intact throughout that time, but both have transformed. Any quest for through lines is an exercise in futility.
Still, it’s fun to imagine. So, I’m allowing myself that liberty here — and inviting you along for the ride.
If you could see me now.
That’s how I’d start an address to my former self. The self-assured young adult, freshly immersed into the real world. Or the bratty teenager that preceded him.
The address would read like this:
If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.
I’ve reached the upper limits of what you think is possible, and then ascended even higher. It might not be the way you drew it up, but the result still tastes oh so sweet.
I’ve faced the struggles you might have assumed I’d confront, as well as some challenges that no one would ever see coming. The process has been painful at times, leading me to wonder if hope was beyond reach. And even now, the scars from those experiences fester. But I’ve made it to the other side.
I’ve tried new things at every turn. Novelties you might scoff at or write off, they’ve become the fabric of my life. The change I’ve encountered hasn’t always been comfortable, and it hasn’t always worked out. But branching out beyond the familiar has opened doors and unlocked so many opportunities I would have once considered unattainable.
I’ve become a TV news producer, then a marketer. I’ve gone back to school, while working full-time, to get a business degree. I’ve parlayed that into a job that I love at a company where I’m valued.
I’ve moved cities twice and forged lifelong connections along the way. I’ve launched a weekly publication, headed up an alumni association chapter, and built myself into a competitive distance runner.
Through all these experiences, I’ve grown into the man I am today. I still have that chip on my shoulder, that drive for continued excellence. But I also have a sense of balance and fulfillment in my life, along with a quiet confidence. I’m grateful for all of it.
If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes. But in time, you’ll find out firsthand what you are truly capable of. Think bigger.
I know every inch of these words. I wrote them, and I lived them. And yet, they still give me chills.
For the younger version of me would not have been ready for any of this.
The younger me had a fixed mindset. The younger me believed in stability. The younger me took the world at face value, rather than challenging assumptions.
I’ve proven the younger me wrong at every turn. And for many years, I’ve done this without even noticing. It’s only recently that things have changed in that regard.
Perhaps this is the hallmark of growth. A steady transformation in the shadows that unlocks our potential and expands our horizons.
I don’t know for sure. But I do know that I’m in a far different place today than I was back then.
Where will I be a decade from now?
This question is a trap door. And I refuse to fall through the bottom.
You see, I might be more self-assured these days than ever before. I may have a better sense of what I’m capable of.
But the whole picture hasn’t come into focus yet. There’s still plenty of room to grow, to evolve, and to unlock even more of my potential.
Make no mistake, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved so far. But I still believe that the best is yet to come. And that a familiar refrain will still ring true.
If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.